like the lingering taste of vodka on my lips or the smokey air set deep in my clothes after a night out, you linger on in the same way, except through days and years that I’ve lost count of, that I was never able to wash off, from the feeling of your hands tangled up in my hair and the deepness of your voice still singing in my ears, down to the secrets we exchanged with just the language of our hips; all that is the none of you is all I still have of you, that all very much still lives in my skin.